


In Fatis

by andrewwritesstuffoccasionally



Category: Legend Series - Marie Lu
Genre: Also this whole thing is objectively garbage so go find a different fic, Anden is depressed, F/M, M/M, also gay, the target audience is me, this is just me writing down whatever gay nonsense crosses my little pea brain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:40:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22011217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrewwritesstuffoccasionally/pseuds/andrewwritesstuffoccasionally
Summary: Don't know how much of this I'll actually write, but here's the first chapter anyway. Pardon the stupid fucking title; I don't know what I'm doing
Relationships: Anden Stavropolous/John Wing
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15





	1. Clean Shoes

**Author's Note:**

> Don't know how much of this I'll actually write, but here's the first chapter anyway. Pardon the stupid fucking title; I don't know what I'm doing

“This isn’t the best place to be hanging around, you know.”  
  
Anden started at the sudden sound, nearly dropping his phone. Fucking fantastic, that would’ve been. The streets here were more of a maze than anything--zigzagging roads and narrow alleys, all crowded with rows of tents and trash and the stifling smell of rot. Without the digital map pulled up in his hand, he’d never make it out--he might as well curl up on the cracked pavement and accept his fate.  
  
True, though, that this definitely was not the place to be walking around in. It was an alley between two tenements in the poorest part of the sector. He definitely hadn’t chosen this route on purpose, he’d just ended up here after almost an hour of navigating through the city. The road he’d come in one had been blocked off after some sort of accident. It wouldn’t do to go back that way. If he’d come within ten feet of the barricade--well, the police in this area were known for their brutality. With the state of his clothes, he doubted they’d recognize him as the Elector’s son. Best to go the long way around instead.  
  
About half an hour ago, the rain had started. It was tolerable at first, just a light drizzle, but gradually it came down harder and harder until his hair was plastered to his forehead and any warmth he’d originally had was washed away. Maybe it would’ve been better to take his chances with the police, he’d thought.  
  
He’d spent the next thirty minutes debating which would be a better way to go: freezing to death or getting beaten to death. Only afterwards did he begin to wonder about his odds of actually getting stabbed or bludgeoned while he tried to find his way back through the labyrinth of back alleys and narrow streets. His pace quickened as he went, until he heard the voice. He turned to find the owner.  
  
It was a boy standing only a couple yards away under an overhang. He couldn’t have been any older than Anden was himself. Straight, blond hair hung over his shoulders, darkened by the rain. He wore some sort of dark blue uniform--for a factory, maybe? There were quite a few of those nearby.  
  
Anden wasn’t sure how to respond, or even if he should. Maybe he should just keep walking. It would get dark soon, and god forbid he stay stuck out here at night.  
  
The boy didn’t seem threatening, though. He looked more tired than anything. Slumped shoulders, hollow eyes, arms hugged tightly to his chest to ward off the cold.  
  
“You don’t come this way very often, do you?” The boy asked flatly. Do I really look that lost? Anden thought. He hesitated, weighing the likelihood of this guy jumping out to attack him if he interacted. After a moment, he shook his head. Whatever. He was cold and his feet ached too much for him to care.  
  
The boy pushed off from the wall and began to walk, gesturing for him to follow. “Come on,” he said. “I know this area pretty well. Where are you headed?”  
  
“Batalla.” Anden fell in pace next to him. The boy raised an eyebrow. “I live near the edge,” Anden lied quickly. Probably not a great idea to give a random stranger any indication he had money.  
  
“I know a shortcut.”  
  
They fell into a silence as they went, the boy leading them through the twists and turns of the Lake sector streets. Now that they were just a few feet away, Anden got a better look at him. He was definitely from around here, you could see it in his face. Hunger had left a distinct mark on many people in the Lake sector. Chapped lips, sunken eyes, hollow cheekbones. He wasn’t as emaciated as some of the people Anden had seen today--he actually had a fair amount of muscle. Still, anyone who looked could tell he wasn’t quite getting fed enough.  
  
“My name is John, by the way,” he said, not taking his eyes off the road in front of them.  
  
“I’m Anden,” Anden said, feeling a pang of regret the second the words came out of his mouth. Most people don’t know my name, he thought, trying to push down the anxiety that began to rear its ugly head. People knew the surname, Stavropolous. But fewer people knew the first name of the Elector, and even fewer actually knew the name of his son, who was barely active in the public sphere at all. Luckily, John didn’t seem to be one of those people. No reaction.  
  
“So what were you up to back there?” John asked.  
  
Anden shrugged. Truthfully, he wasn’t really sure what he was doing. No one in the gem sectors ever went to the poorer sectors of their own free will. It was dangerous, dirty. Everything you saw either made you feel repulsion or guilt. Easier to avoid it at all costs.  
  
But for the past few weeks, something kept drawing Anden’s mind to thoughts of these places. Pretty early on, he realized he’d never actually been to the slums, and while many would count that as a blessing, Anden couldn’t help feel a sort of morbid curiosity growing. How was it that the Republic had so much wealth and luxury, and yet was also home to some of the most desolate people on the planet? What’d gone wrong, and why did nobody seem to care?  
  
Of course, it also helped that no one in the poor sectors seemed to recognize him. Anden couldn’t go five feet in the richer sectors without feeling dozens of pairs of eyes following him. The worst times were when there were reporters, eager to pry into whatever information Anden was privy to on his father’s political affairs. Which, typically, was none. But so far, in Lake, not a single person had recognized him. Or if they had, they had kept it to themselves. Sure, he looked like the Elector’s son, but why would a wealthy young man like him be doing wandering the streets of Lake, alone, dressed barely a notch above a homeless person?  
  
“I needed to go on a walk,” Anden said.  
  
John laughed. It was the first expression of any emotion besides exhaustion that Anden had seen on his face. It was a nice laugh, he decided.  
  
“Quite a place to choose for a walk. Do you know how many muggings happen in that neighborhood? I heard a girl got stabbed over there last week.”  
  
“So what were you doing back there, then?”  
  
“Mugging people.”  
  
Anden scoffed. At least, he hoped John was joking. Honestly, he couldn’t be 100% sure. “Funny. What were you actually doing?”  
  
“You know, just walking home. I work like a mile and a half away. Right around that alley is a good half-way point to stop and rest.”  
  
“You’re not afraid of getting attacked?” Anden said.  
  
John just shrugged. “Maybe I should be. I don’t know. Once you’ve been in that sort of environment long enough, you kinda start to let your guard down. Nothing’s happened to me yet.”  
  
Anden felt a wave of guilt wash over him. How grim must this guy’s life be for muggings and hunger and rows of people living in tents to seem normal? How many millions of people suffered like John or worse while Anden spent his life waltzing around expensive private schools and attending lavish banquets every other week?  
  
“Where do you work?” John asked.  
  
The question snapped Anden out of his train of thought, catching him off guard. “I--um,” he racked his brain, searching for a lie. He’d never worked a day in his life; what the hell was he supposed to say? “I’m sort of in between jobs at the moment.”  
  
John looked him up and down. “Right.” A pause. “You really aren’t from around here, are you?”  
  
“No, I am. Just not from this neighborhood.”  
  
“Can I tell you a secret?” John asked, the faintest hint of a smile playing on his lips.  
  
“Sure?”  
  
“You’re a terrible liar.”  
  
Anden opened his mouth to respond, but couldn’t find any words to say. No one had ever been that blunt with him. Well, no one except his father, but the Elector’s harshness never had the playful undertone that John had in this moment.  
  
“Dude, it’s okay,” John continued. “If you don’t want to tell me something, you don’t have to. Lots of people like to keep their lives to themselves.”  
  
Anden breathed a silent sigh of relief. For a random stranger on the streets, John was surprisingly understanding.  
  
“What gave me away?” Anden asked sheepishly.  
  
John gave him another once-over. “Well, for starters, you’re dressed like someone who’s only ever seen poor people on TV. Also, your shoes are clean,” he said, gesturing to Anden’s feet. “That’s usually a dead giveaway that someone has at least a little money.”  
  
Damn. He should’ve scuffed up his boots before he came here. He’d been so careful, messing up everything else he was wearing so he’d fit in. Hopefully John was just an astute observer and he hadn’t been so obvious to everyone who had seen him.  
  
They made small talk as they went, darting from awning to awning in a futile attempt to keep dry. Ten minutes passed, and the rain’s intensity eased somewhat. John proved to be pretty charming. By the time they reached a familiar road right next to the border between Lake and Batalla, only twenty minutes after they’d met, Anden felt relatively comfortable talking with him. He had a nice smile, too, Anden decided, noticing the slight dimples that appeared whenever he said something that struck John as amusing.  
  
“Well, this is it,” John said as they came to a stop by the border between sectors. “You good to go from here?”  
  
“Yeah, I know where I am now,” Anden replied. “Thanks a lot, by the way.”  
  
“Don’t mention it. I better be getting back home now; see you around, maybe.”  
  
John turned to leave, going very nearly the way they had come. It was at that moment that Anden was hit with the sudden realization that John might’ve just gone a fair distance out of his way to help Anden get back to Batalla. Damn, he thought. He was grateful, of course, but also felt a twinge of guilt. John looked exhausted from the moment they met. He’d just gotten off work (and it must’ve been a long shift given the look of him) to walk upwards of a mile in a freezing cold downpour. Still, he’d made the effort the make sure Anden got to where he needed to be before the sun set, when he would’ve found himself in real trouble.  
  
“John,” he called out. He couldn’t just leave John there without doing something to thank him. He probably wouldn’t even get a meal when he arrived home.  
  
John stopped and looked back.  
  
“Hey, do you--can I--,” Anden tried, tripping over his words. “Do you want to get dinner or something? I’ll pay. I just--it was really nice of you to help me out.”  
  
John bit his lip. “Normally I’d say yes, but I’ve got an eight-year-old brother to take care of. Mom’s gonna have to leave for work soon. It’s my turn to watch him.”  
  
“Ah,” Anden said, a sinking feeling of disappointment. John was nice. It’d be nice to spend a little more time with him. Oh well. “Well, thanks again.”  
  
“Don’t worry about it.”  
  
And with that, they parted ways.


	2. Fight!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First draft, no editing, no proofreading, we die like men

The roar of the crowd reached a deafening fever pitch. Contender down. One punch. Another. A third. He went limp, and the fight was over. The winner, a blonde, muscular woman who looked to be in her early thirties, pushed herself off her unconscious opponent and got to her feet, raising her blood streaked fists in the air in triumph. The crowd shrieked with joy. 

The loser lay at her feet in a heap. Anden managed to catch a glimpse of his face before a few people stepped out from the crowd and dragged him away by his ankles. One eye was swollen shut and had already begun to change from the bright red of a contact wound to a dark violet. His nose looked to be broken, his lip split open all the way up to his nose. Blood spotted the ground where his head had hit when he went down. He probably had at least one broken bone, maybe a few cracked ribs, Anden speculated. It was a miracle he wasn’t dead. Or maybe he was, and no one cared. He certainly looked to be on his way there.

Anden had never seen a skiz fight before. Only three rounds so far, and they were already living up to the brutality he’d heard of. It was crazy that none of the soldiers he’d seen patrolling the sector had stepped in. Or to be more specific, had stepped in to break up the fighting. Anden had counted three soldiers mingling in the crowd. One had even placed a bet in the second round. Judging by the look on his face at the end of each fight, he was on a winning streak.

Anden kept his distance from the center of the action. He watched from the second story of a tenement overlooking the fight. The renter was charging $5 per person for a place on their balcony to watch the skiz fight from a bird’s eye view. Anden hadn’t given the price too much thought until he watched the person behind him arguing with the renter. That seemed to be a fair amount of money in this neighborhood.

He’d heard about these sorts of housing situations, but only in brief mentions on the news. Never the center of attention. Building owners would rent rooms out to entire families, who would sometimes sublet corners of the rooms to complete strangers. The severity of it hadn’t really hit Anden until he made his way up the stairs of the apartment complex. The wallpaper was peeling and water stained, and in some places marked with graffiti. The stench of human waste mixed with the smell of dry rot clung to the air. The room he was brought up to--where he’d paid to watch the fight--was another sight altogether. The door had five separate locks, all but one broken from when the police, or whoever, had kicked it in. A fluorescent bulb, the only lighting in the room, dangled from the ceiling on a wire, flickering. Anden would’ve thought the whole place was originally intended to be a large closet if not for the small actual closet door off to his left. 

The winner of the last round scanned the edge of the ring for her next opponent. A tentative hand went up a few people back. The blonde woman pointed at it and gestured into the ring, readying herself for another match.

The challenger stepped forward, stripping off his jacket. He was about the same height as she was. White-blond hair pulled back into a messy bun at the back of his head. Broad shoulders. He looked strong, but it was doubtful he’d be able to beat the woman in the ring. Thus far, she’d proven herself to be completely and utterly lethal. 

_What an idiot_ , Anden thought. 

It wasn’t until the match started and the two began to circle each other did Anden get a look at the challenger’s face.

_Oh._

_Oh no._

John. The boy from a few days ago. The one who’d been so kind to Anden, helping him find his way back to Batalla. The face was unmistakably his. He had the same nose, the same spattering of light freckles, the same hungry eyes. 

Anden’s grip on the balcony rail tightened. He didn’t know this boy, not really. They’d spoken a bit and then parted ways. And yet, he found himself leaning a little further over the balcony. Somehow, that brief time they’d spent in each other’s company made this fight and its consequences much more real. John didn’t look very sure of himself. If Anden could see it, then John’s undefeated opponent could surely see it as well. He was about to get eaten alive. 

The two circled each other for a few seconds, sizing each other up. John darted forward and threw the first punch. The woman jumped out of the way, but his fist still tagged her. John’s momentum made him stumble, but he caught himself quickly and went in for another blow. This time he hit her square in the gut. She winced, doubling over. John stepped back, nervous. He was anticipating the pain of a strike; he had been from the second he raised his hand to enter the fight. 

The woman used his hesitation to her advantage. She charged and caught him by the waist. John grappled with her, trying to keep on his feet. He landed an elbow in her back, but still she got him on the ground. She brought his fist down his face once, twice, before he managed to buck her off. 

They went back and forth for a minute and a half. Neither had yielded yet, but Anden could tell that John’s strength was fading fast. He had taken far more blows than the woman had. His breathing was shallow and ragged. 

It wasn’t long before the woman closed in, striking him three times in the chest. He fell back, barely raising his arms to protect his face. She caught him in a headlock. John grasped at her arms in a desperate attempt to free himself. His face began to change color. Finally, his body went limp and she dropped him, once again triumphant. John rolled onto his side, gasping for air.

Anden broke himself away from the fight. I have to help him. He made his way back out of the room and down the stairs, pushing through the groups of spectators. 

Luckily, the crowd had calmed down a bit as the woman looked for her next opponent. Anden weasled through the dense wall of bodies surrounding the ring. God, it was like being in a can of sardines. A couple minutes later, he found John sitting at the edge of the crowd, slumped against a wall.  
  
“Hey, I remember you,” John said fondly, his voice unbearably hoarse. He looked Anden up and down. “Scuffed up your shoes this time, I see.”  
  
Anden knelt down in front of him. He looked, quite frankly, like shit. One hand clutched his side, and the other pressed his wadded up jacket into a large gash on his cheekbone. The skin around it had gone an angry red. His bottom lip was split.  
  
“Are you alright?” Anden asked.  
  
“I’m fine.”  
  
When he spoke, Anden noticed blood staining his teeth. The sight made him wince.  
  
“You shouldn’t have your jacket on that cut. You might get an infection.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” John shrugged, “gotta stop it from bleeding somehow.”  
  
Anden paused, taking in John’s bloodied face. He couldn’t just leave him here; he was a mess.  
  
“Come on, let’s get you out of here,” Anden said, straightening up.  
  
John shifted uneasily. “I think I sprained my ankle.”  
  
Anden took John’s free arm and slung it over his shoulders. Before John could protest, Anden hauled him to his feet, careful to keep the most of John’s weight off his bad foot.  
  
“I’m getting you lunch. I’m not taking no for an answer.”  
  
“How about a drink? I could use one pretty bad right now,” John said.  
  
“I’m not old enough to drink.”  
  
“Neither am I. No one cares as long as you pay.”  
  
Anden hesitated. Then, deciding the risk was pretty low, agreed.

  


\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The pub was pretty dead at this hour. Good. After all the screaming and shouting at the skiz fight, Anden was grateful for the quiet.  
  
It was a small place, just one room taken up half by a bar and half by a row of booths with a narrow walkway between the two. Initially, Anden had been taken aback by how grimy and dimly lit the place was. But their food turned out to be decent and John didn’t seem to care, so he couldn’t complain.  
  
“I wasn’t expecting to see you back there,” John remarked. Anden sat beside him, dabbing vodka onto his gash with a napkin. John had protested, but with how dirty everything was in this sector, Anden had insisted. It wouldn’t do any good for the wound to get infected. Definitely not where he thought his day was going when he’d woken up that morning. He felt weird doing it in a booth in the middle of a pub, but no one seemed to care.  
  
“Well, I wasn’t expecting to see you either,” Anden replied. “What were you thinking back there? Also, shouldn’t you be working? It’s the middle of the day.”  
  
Anden finished cleaning off the gash. It was a nasty one; two inches long from the temple to the bottom of his cheekbone. The skin had split open about half an inch at the widest point in the middle. Anden made a mental note to find a drugstore and buy some butterfly bandages after they’d left the pub.  
  
“I don’t have work today. It’s my one day off. I was watching the fight and I just--,” John sighed. “Money is tight. I mean it always is, but it’s tighter than normal right now. I saw the skiz fight and I just figured it’d be easy. Beat Jeanine, get some cash, get out.”  
  
Anden shook his head. “That was--wait, ‘Jeanine’? You knew her?”  
  
“Yeah.” John took a long sip of whiskey. “She’s always at skiz fights. Makes a killing. We’ve been friends for a little while now and she’s always made fighting look easy, but Jesus Christ, apparently not.”  
  
Anden looked at the damage Jeanine had done to his face, speechless. He opened his mouth to say something, but still no words came. “You need to find better friends,” he mumbled.  
“No shit.”  
  
A lull in the conversation. Before Anden could think of anything to say, John broke the silence.  
  
“Why did you help me? After the fight, I mean.”  
  
The question took Anden aback. That’s what people did, wasn’t it? If you see someone hurt, you try to help. That’s just basic human decency.  
  
And yet he’d watched three other matches before John had stepped into the ring. Three people had been beaten within an inch of their lives, even worse than John. Maybe Jeanine had gone a little easier on him after all. Still, Anden had seen those three get dragged out of the ring without the thought of helping crossing his mind. Why was John so different? Maybe it was because Anden knew him. Well, he didn’t know know him, but they’d interacted a bit before, and John was nice. Yeah, that had to be it.  
  
“I don’t know,” Anden settled on. “Returning the favor, I guess? You helped me the other day. Now I help you.”  
  
“Well, I guess we’re even, then,” John chuckled.  
  
John downed the remainder of his whiskey. The window next to him was smeared with grease and ink from where the owner had written announcements about bargain deals and weekly specials with a dry-erase pen. Most of the ink would come off when erased, but it still left residue. It caused the light that filtered through to be cast in swirling patterns over John’s face. Like an impressionist painting, Anden thought. The lighting drew Anden’s attention to John’s eyes. He hadn’t really noticed before, but they were pretty. Scratch that, they were breathtaking. Long lashes and deep blue irises illuminated like sapphires when the sunlight hit them.  
  
Anden realized he was staring and quickly glanced away. He could feel the heat growing in his cheeks. He forced it down. Luckily, John didn’t seem to notice.  
  
They stayed in the pub for about an hour, talking. Anden learned that John had just turned eighteen, only a year younger than himself. He lived with his mother and younger brother. He’d lived in Lake all his life. Like a lot of people in the poor sectors, he worked fourteen hour shifts, six days per week. No wonder he always looked so exhausted. His father died when he was twelve, and his second younger brother when he was fourteen. He talked of his family fondly, but when mentioning his brother, Daniel, a certain heaviness fell over his expression. He pursed his lips, his eyes darkening.  
  
“He’s just so reckless, you know?” said John, furrowing his brow. “I mean, he was. Sorry. Never get used to talking about him in past tense.”  
  
It was almost sweet, how he talked of his brother as if he were still with them. Almost. The sadness had a way of really drowning out any positives. It had been four whole years, but John spoke as if Daniel had only died a month ago. Perhaps John had never quite come to terms with it. Maybe so much misfortune had struck this family that he’d never be able to cope.  
  
Despite Anden’s sympathy, though, he could never truly understand. The more he thought about it, the more frustrated he felt. So many people he’d met knew loss, knew grief. But Anden had never seen anyone he was close to pass away. His mother, of course, had died shortly after he was born, but he was far too young to have known her.  
  
Was it strange, to crave such a negative emotion? After all, anything he could ever want was right at his fingertips. All he had to do was ask, and his wealth would provide. But there were so few instances in his life where he felt much defining emotion. His status acted as a shelter against the horrors that so many of his peers had experienced, but it was beginning to feel a bit like a double-edged sword. Because the more Anden thought about it, the more his world was beginning to become a cage.  
  
Genuine human connection wasn’t his forte. But he deserved at least a couple friends, right? Maybe John could be a friend. They were getting along pretty well so far.  
  
“What about you, then?” John asked. The corner of his mouth quirked up in a subtle smirk. “What’s with this whole mysterious-stranger-act? Pretending you’re dirt poor like everyone else here?”  
  
Anden hesitated. For a moment, he considered flat out telling John the truth. He waved the thought away as soon as it entered his head. Scaring him off wouldn’t do any good.  
  
“Well?” John raised an eyebrow. “Come on, I know I said I don’t want to pry, but I’m getting curious.”  
  
_I can tell him some of the truth_ , Anden thought.  
  
“I live with my father in Batalla. My mom died when I was a baby, so I never really knew her.”  
  
“Sorry to hear it.”  
  
“It’s fine. There’s a lot of money in my family, so not much to complain about. My dad is--a politician. So it looks like I’m going to be in politics too in a few years. And I guess that’s fine; my father will be happy about it.”  
  
“Your father is a pretty controlling guy, isn’t he?” John cut in.  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“I asked you to tell me about yourself, and the first thing you did was tell me about your father. What he does, what he wants for you. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out there’s some sort of struggle going on there.”  
  
This was the second time now that Anden was taken aback by how astute John was.  
  
“What do you want for yourself?” John continued.  
  
“Honestly, I don’t know.” _I don’t know_. That phrase seemed to be popping up a lot lately, haphazardly answering questions that needed actual, serious answers.  
  
He looked back at John’s pretty, sapphire eyes. Typically, Anden felt a surge of anxiety or unease when he thought too much about the sort of things John had asked him about. Right now, for some reason, he didn’t feel that. Something about John’s presence was remarkably calming, and suddenly he didn’t care quite as much as he usually did about where the future would take him.  
  
_I don’t know._  
  
_I don’t know._

  



	3. A Touch of Rebellion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, messy, and poorly written. Just like the rest of my life.

When Anden saw his father sitting at the end of the table, he knew something was off.  
He’d just gotten in from the airport, logging more hours towards his pilot’s license. He was so close to becoming certified, he could almost taste it. Then there would be no need for a supervisor; he could just take to the skies whenever he wanted to, feel his heart pound as it worked against the G’s and got him high off adrenaline. That, by far, was the best feeling he’d ever experienced.  
  
It slipped from his mind the second he saw the Elector. When his eyes darted from his father’s concerned face to the folded heap placed on the table, he, for the first time in his life, really understood the meaning of the phrase “blood running cold”. Like being woken up by a bucket of ice water dumped over his head. Well, he sure as hell was awake now--hyperaware of every little detail of his surroundings and utterly empty minded.  
  
“Hey,” Anden said. _Play dumb_. Hopefully the moment’s hesitation when he entered the dining room wasn’t too noticeable. Or if it was, maybe his father would just take it as surprise to see him. Even though they were a family of only two members, family dinners were scarce. That’ll happen when one of those members has to work around the clock to keep an ironclad authority over twenty million people and the other is an introvert who’d rather eat hot coals than risk showing his inner emotions to anyone he was close to.  
  
“What’s that?” asked Anden, gesturing to the pile. He sat down somewhat awkwardly in the seat nearest to his father. Of course, he knew what it was: a ratty navy blue shirt, dark jeans worn at the knees from use, and a faded green jacket with a broken zipper and hole torn in the sleeve. The whole outfit was stained with smudges of grime and whatever other mystery substances he had come in contact with while wandering the streets of Lake.  
  
The Elector pursed his lips. “Anden, I think we need to have a talk.”  
  
Worst. Nine. Words. Ever. Anden realized he was bouncing his knee up and down, and forced himself to stop before his father could see.  
  
“Okay, what are we talking about?”  
  
The Elector leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. Up this close, he looked weary and starkly different from the portrait that hung in every building in the Republic. His skin didn’t have the same healthy glow, and was creased with age. His hair had gained quite a few streaks of grey in the past few years. When you looked close enough you could see it had begun to thin. Still, the most notable difference was his eyes--while his official portrait had bright eyes, gleaming with power, the reality was less impressive. His eyes just looked plain tired, like they’d started losing sleep years before and had never made it up.  
  
He pushed the folded stack of clothes between them.  
  
“Genevieve found these hidden in the back of your wardrobe.”  
  
 _Shit_. The housekeeper. He’d come in the night before and tossed the dirty clothes in the back of his closet, collapsing into bed from exhaustion without thinking twice. But the housekeeper made her rounds to his wing of the house every three days, and today was that third day.  
  
“They smell like grease. Chemicals. Maybe smoke?” His father lifted up the jacket and sniffed it. “This is a strange thing for someone with your standing to have around. I’ve been thinking about it quite a bit today, Anden, and clothes don’t end up this way when you’ve been staying inside Batalla. So what I’m thinking is you’ve been out in the slum sectors recently.”  
  
Anden tried to pull himself together enough to think of a lie. He opened his mouth to defend himself, but nothing came.  
  
After a moment, the Elector sighed. “Dammit, Anden,” he said. He didn’t sound particularly angry, more disappointed. Annoyance was there too. “You can’t do that. It isn’t appropriate.”  
  
“Why not?” Anden snapped. Immediately, he winced at the sharpness of his tone. He hadn’t realized it before, but tension had tightened his chest into a knot.  
  
His father raised his eyebrows. “It isn’t safe. Do you have any idea how high the crime rates are in Lake? That’s where you went, isn’t it? Even this morning I heard news of a girl down there who was stabbed in the face and beaten to death in a mugging. That could’ve been _you_ , Anden. I--,” he paused, taking a deep breath. “Look, I know you want to explore. I’m okay with you going out, but you have to have a guard with you. And you can’t dress like a homeless person; it’ll damage your image.”  
  
Of course, he was allowed to leave the safety of Batalla, but only with a practical squadron of protective details. What a bastard he'd look like, waltzing down to Lake with a dozen armed guards. The Elector did quite seem to understand what Anden's intentions were. Just being away from home wasn't the point. It was feeling like a normal human being, blending into a crowd, interacting with people without his status looming above the heads of everyone within a ten mile radius. A semblance of normalcy.  
  
But he wouldn't say that. Not here, and certainly not to his father. What good would it do, anyway? If the Elector was anything, he was absolute and unflinching. No words that Anden could possibly string together would come close to changing his mind.  
  
“Fine,” Anden said, trying to conceal his disappointment and the anxiety rising in his chest. “I’m just going to go to bed.”  
  
He stood to leave, but his father grabbed his wrist.  
  
“Wait,” he said. His voice softened, just a bit. “I’m sorry. I just wouldn’t be able to bear it if anything happened to you. Especially after your mother--,” he trailed off.  
  
The words hit Anden in the chest. He knew what his father meant. Nineteen years since his mother died, and neither of them were over it. Anden had never even known her, for Chrissakes. At least he shouldn’t be so weighed down by it. But how couldn’t he be? He was the one who had killed her, wasn’t he? She brought him into the world, and he had thanked her by taking her out of it.  
  
“It’s fine,” Anden said. “Really, it’s fine. I’m just tired. I won’t go out again, okay?”  
  
His father nodded, then let him go. “Thank you.”  
  
Anden left, hurrying to his wing of the house and then up the stairs. When he reached his room, he shut the door, locked it, and slid to the ground. Tears welled in his eyes, despite his best efforts, as the anxiety threatened to bubble over. A lump rose in his throat. He’d always thought the size of his room was excessive, but suddenly all the walls seemed uncomfortably close.  
  
What was this life he was living? Was he doomed to watch the rest of his years tick by, second by second, trapped in the same bubble he’d been raised in? Was he really a person at all, if he didn’t have any friends, any duties other than staying alive until his father passed and it was his turn to lead?  
  
Was he cursed for killing his mother?  
  
Of course he knew, logically, he was not responsible for her death. He did not have any say as to whether he was brought into the world or not. But it still stung. It still felt like he had done something wrong, something which everyone knew about but no one seemed to acknowledge. When the Elector’s late wife was mentioned in Anden’s midst, unsaid words seemed to hang in the air. And sometimes, when his father looked at him, Anden wondered if he blamed his son for the death of the wife he had loved so dearly.  
  
Anden didn’t like to think about it. Most of the time, he didn’t anyway. Only at certain moments like in his conversation with his father when the concept was brought up did the thought whirl around his head over and over until all he wanted was to close his eyes and fall asleep.  
  
He forced down his tears. No. He wasn’t going to let himself break down like this. If he couldn’t keep it together when his father told him off, he wouldn’t be able to keep it together when he would take his place as the Elector. And he was not going to fail the only job he had.  
  
Anden stood up, took a deep breath in, and let it out. Then again. Then one more time. The tightness in his chest began to ease. He brought himself to the window and pushed it open. The night air touched skin, crisp and cool, calming his nerves. He stared at the horizon and tried to picture himself standing far away, looking out over a world open wide before him.  
  
Fuck it. Maybe his father was okay with him rotting away in the safety of their home, but he wasn’t.  
  
He was leaving. Right now.


	4. ...Fight?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An overused trope and some homoerotic subtext

“Punch me.”

The words came out of Anden’s mouth much more confidently than he felt. He couldn’t really explain it either. Thinking of the fight he had pulled John out of the other day, the bruises and small scar forming on John’s cheekbone, it all got him wondering what that sort of pain would feel like. He’d never gotten in a fight, of course. How could he, even if he tried? Anyone who would dare to come at him would get shot from five different angles by professional guards before they made it within a foot of him. 

In terms of injuries, he’d never gotten more than a fractured arm, and that certainly wasn’t intentional. He hadn’t seen it coming either. But a good punch to the face? Surely that would be….different. 

It felt so stupid when he said it out loud. Of course John wasn’t going to hit him. What kind of person would do that on command? But the request was out in the open regardless. And Anden was still curious. 

“Sorry, what?” John raised his eyebrows, setting his plate down. 

The back of his family’s home wasn’t exactly glamorous, but it did have a very small porch and several square feet of grass before a fence separated them from their neighbors. Anden had been shocked when he’d first seen it, although he wasn’t sure what he was expecting. He just wasn’t used to seeing such cramped living quarters.

Anden had met John’s mother when he’d arrived about an hour earlier. Her name was Grace, she’d said. She was an incredibly sweet woman, probably in her early fifties. She shared John’s bright eyes and blonde hair, although hers was streaked with white and tied back neatly with a faded bandana. The way she carried herself, however, seemed tired. In the same way as his own father seemed tired, Anden supposed. 

Her eyes widened when Anden showed her the food he’d brought for them, scarce as it was. Some of the exhaustion left her face in that moment. They’d separated it into four equal portions, putting one in the fridge for John’s younger brother. He was asleep, John explained, but he’d be excited to have it when he woke up the next morning. John grabbed two plates and lead Anden out to the small porch to eat. As they left, Anden caught a momentary glimpse of Grace’s expression as she shot an almost knowing look at the two of them. He puzzled over it for a moment, but then decided to let it go.

So now here they were, sitting on the small wooden porch, the proposal of violence hanging between them.

“Would you, maybe… punch me?” Anden repeated. The certainty of his original request had mostly gone. Silence. “In the face,” he added.

John opened his mouth, momentarily lost for words.

“Actually, nevermind,” Anden backtracked. “Sorry, that was--”

“Sure,” John cut him off. After his moment of surprise, he’d regained his normal, carefree demeanor. 

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah.” John got to his feet and cracked his knuckles. He beckoned Anden over to the little grassy area, presumably so Anden would not hurt himself too much if he fell. “I mean don’t get me wrong, it’s a little weird. But I’m sure you’ve got your reasons. And you  _ did _ bring me food, so I owe you one.” A grin crossed John’s face. “Just don’t tell my mom I’m out punching people, okay?”

Anden nodded, positioning himself a few feet in front of John. Suddenly, he wasn’t very sure of any of this. What was he doing? Just a few hours before he’d quietly slipped out his bedroom window, got on a public bus, and showed up at the house of a guy he barely knew. He doubted that was what John was expecting when they’d exchanged phone numbers at the pub when they’d last met. And now  _ this _ ? What had gotten into him?

“Ready?”

Anden nodded hesitantly. 

John’s fist started cocked up by his shoulder. Before Anden had even processed it moving it slammed into his face, right below his eye, followed by the dull cracking sound of his brain rattling against his skull that only he could hear. He stumbled back. At first, nothing. Then, the pain came in a wave, sharp and aching. Still, it wasn’t too bad. He brought his fingers up to the impact site, but pulled them away when contact hurt.

Anden cursed. “Nice,” he said, for lack of a better word.

“You okay?” John asked, suddenly erring on the side of concerned. 

“I’m alright.” He touched his face again. Again, it hurt. “Damn, that hurt.”

“Is it everything you dreamed of?” The corner of John’s mouth crept up into a smirk. 

Anden laughed. Another idea crossed his mind. Another stupid, stupid idea.

“Do you want to fight?”

Just like with his earlier request, John seemed taken aback. “Okay?” He paused. “Yeah, sure, I’ll fight.”

“You seem surprised.” Anden was beginning to feel a little more comfortable now. He was having fun. It’d been a very long time since he’d last had genuine fun. His heart beat fast. Adrenaline from taking a hit had kicked in.

“People usually don’t ask to fight, you know,” John said. “Usually they just come at you. But what the hell, sounds fun. And whatever you do, it’s not gonna be as bad as what Jeanine did to me.”

They positioned themselves across from one another, in an unrefined version of what Anden had seen some of the military students do at the schools around Batalla. Bent knees, fists raised, turned slightly to the side. 

Getting started was a little awkward. Anden wasn’t sure if he should throw the first punch, but after some nervous laughter between the two of them, John stepped up and hit first. Anden leaned back, trying to dodge, but it still tagged him. Slowly, they moved around more and more, and their back and forth exchange turned into an actual fight. Well, more of a brawl. Neither of them knew what they were doing. But their hearts pumped and blood rushed, and by the time they stopped they were both sweaty and panting and aching in a million places. And  _ smiling _ , Anden realized. If he wasn’t careful, he could get addicted to this.

They went for two more rounds. Neither of them had a distinct winner or loser, just jumbled limbs and fists trying to one-up each other until someone said to stop.

Their third and final round ended when John managed go push Anden back and pin him to the ground. 

“I think that’s it for me,” John panted.

Anden nodded breathlessly in agreement. They paused. Anden suddenly became very aware of how little the distance between them was. John was knelt over him, pinning his hands to the ground by his head. His face glistened with sweat, baby hairs plastered to his forehead. The rest of his hair hung around his face, golden and almost halo-like under the dim porch light. Anden felt heat rising in his cheeks. Hopefully John didn’t notice. It was pretty dark outside, anyway.

Then, John released him and shifted away, and the moment was gone. Anden let out a silent breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. John took his hand, pulling him up.

The rest of the night passed uneventfully. They finished their food in a pleasant silence. Once Anden had sat down, his limbs and his eyelids felt heavier. John yawned a few times, too. The fight had really taken it out of both of them, he guessed. But for all his aches and pains, he felt good. 

He finally got up to leave as he realized it was nearing two in the morning. He didn’t want to look too tired the next day, or his father might get suspicious. Generally speaking, he wasn’t a night person. Sometimes, though, there were nights when he just couldn’t sleep. Maybe he could play it off as that.

John walked him to the door. His mother wasn’t there anymore. She’d probably gone to sleep earlier, hopefully early enough that she didn’t notice her son and a stranger punching each other on the back porch. If she noticed, apparently she didn’t mind  _ that  _ much.

“Let’s do it again some time,” John said, opening the door for Anden. “Or, if you don’t want to be crammed in here with my whole family, maybe I can come to your place.”

Anden scrambled to come up with an excuse. There was an unspoken acknowledgment between the two of the fact that Anden had at least some money. If that was the only difference between them, he’d have John over in a heartbeat. But he didn’t want John to know his father was responsible for the state of the entire country, and he definitely couldn’t have his father seeing him with John. 

“It’s okay; I like it here,” Anden managed. It wasn’t a lie; he really did like stepping out of his own world and into John’s. Still, it felt dirty, covering up a delicate situation with a half-assed excuse. Maybe he was a bit more like his father than he thought. 

Luckily, John didn’t seem too fazed. They bid each other good night, and that was that.

  
  



	5. Sweet Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck it, gay time

Anden raised his fists and stared down the woman in front of him. Sweat beaded on his brow, plastering a few stray curls to his forehead. The woman, Jo, faced him with a professional stance. She barely seemed to break a sweat.

“Keep your head down,” she advised him. “It widens your peripheral vision.”

He did as she said. The two circled each other. Realizing Jo was waiting for him to make the first move, Anden lunged forward and punched. Jo sidestepped, dodging the blow with relative ease.

The past few days had mostly consisted of mild paranoia. Anden hadn’t really thought about the fact that taking a hit or two may leave bruises. At least, he hadn’t really considered this until the morning after he’d had his fight with John, when Anden had looked in the mirror and seen an angry purple mark on his jaw, about the size of John’s knuckles. His own knuckles were speckled with small scrapes. After hurrying out of the estate, trying to hide under his jacket collar, he made a beeline to the closest store that sold makeup and found a tube of concealer in his color. It seemed to work fairly well, as long as no one examined his face too closely. He spent the next few days worried that somehow, someone would see through the concealer and start raising the question of who had assaulted the Elector’s son.

His fight with John had also made him realize how helpless he was. John had won two of the three bouts they’d had. And this was  _ John _ , the man who, at the second time they met, had gotten his ass handed to him so thoroughly that he now kept a conscious distance from skiz fights. If John could overpower Anden, chances were that a not insignificant number of Republic citizens could also overpower him. For a person whose family received multiple death threats per week and wasn’t allowed to do anything without a security detail close behind, that was not a fun thought. Because if he found himself in a dangerous situation on one of his trysts to Lake sector, his bodyguards would not materialize there to protect him. 

Anden’s father had agreed enthusiastically when he’d suggested that he take up boxing to learn some self-defense skills. Before he could blink, one of the Elector’s assistants had arranged a private session with Jo, the most qualified instructor in the Republic.

She had first taught him how to fall correctly so as to not injure himself. Then it was escaping simple wrist grabs. Then stances and a few different punches and kicks. Finally, Jo suggested they spar.

“Keep your guard up,” said Jo. Anden raised his forearms a little higher, protecting his face.

It was an interesting change of pace, going from the fight with John to sparring with Jo. With John, it was raw and unrestrained. This, now, was so artificial. Sure, he was learning some new skills and that was exactly what he’d set out to do, but the structure lacked feeling. Obviously, Jo was holding back. Each one of her movements, though they were swift and decisive, were somewhat gentle. She’d clearly done this a hundred times.

They went for three rounds, each about five minutes, and then their time for the day was up.

“Good job today,” Jo said before she left. “You’ve got a lot of potential. You’re a fast learner, and you think well on your feet. I’m excited to see how you progress.”

Anden thanked her. They agreed to meet a few days later for another session.

Once Jo had gone, Anden took a quick shower and flopped onto his bed. As much as he liked to learn, he was burnt out.

_ The best part of any social interaction _ , he thought,  _ is the three day recuperation period that’s necessary afterwards _ .

Jo was as nice and helpful as anyone could have asked for, but for some reason he just felt like a nuisance to her the whole time. As if, even though she was being paid handsomely, he was wasting her time and she hated being there. She had done nothing that would indicate this, but the feeling lingered. And for some reason, even though he was doing something that he was interested in, he kept finding himself glancing at the clock, counting the minutes until it would be over.  _ Oh well. It’s over now _ .

Anden starred at the ceiling, allowing himself to zone out. His eyelids grew heavy, and he found himself replaying every interaction he had had with Jo, picking them apart until all of his own actions seemed foreign and strange, and he wished he had said or done something differently. Finally, he just decided to take a nap. Hopefully, that would turn off his brain.

He pulled his comforter over him and, savoring the weight of it, faded into darkness.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
  


Anden’s dreams were normally confusing. While he was asleep, everything seemed reasonable and he had no cause to question any of what was going on, but as soon as he woke and tried to decipher what had happened, they became incomprehensible. His surroundings would shift for no reason. People would change into different people or even objects. Iif he was trying to accomplish something, his goals would change by the minute, or he would forget them altogether. 

Granted, bits and pieces of his dreams would be more intelligible. Usually he would see people he knew, or have conversations about things that really did happen. 

When Anden fell asleep and his subconscious took over, he fell into the same incomprehensible world he was used to. Most of it, he would not remember when he awoke.

Once the scene had shifted a few times and numerous people had come and gone, Anden found himself somewhere dark and quiet. Nothing caught Anden’s attention, save for the person next to him. Even though he couldn’t quite make the figure out, he was sure it was John. There was no reason for this, he just knew.

They were both lying back on a couch, and John was curled against his side, head rested lazily on Anden’s chest. Anden’s arm was wrapped around John as if they had been together for a very long time. 

Anden absentmindedly played with a lock of John’s hair. A sense of warmth washed over him.

John shifted slightly. He tilted his head up to look at Anden, eyes still sleepy. Anden leaned in and kissed him gently. The movement came naturally, as if he had done it a thousand times before.

The scene faded, and the moment was over. Anden lingered in darkness for some time before opening his eyes. Gradually, his room came into focus.

Afternoon light spilled through the windows, drowning the room in gold. He rolled over and squinted at the clock on his bedside table. 4:30. A four hour nap. Was that healthy? Years ago, he rarely napped at all. Lately, it seemed, he woke up tired everyday. His naps became longer and longer as the time passed. At the end of the day, he would lay down tired but be unable to sleep.

Anden reluctantly pushed off the covers and got to his feet.  _ One day I’ll just go to sleep and stay that way for a few months. Maybe that could be fun _ .

Thoughts still muddled in a post-sleep haze, he grabbed a glass from his bedside table, made his way to the bathroom, and filled the glass with water. As he lifted the glass to his lips, parts of his dream began to come back to him. 

The weight of John resting against him. The warmth between them. The kiss. Oh god, the kiss. Anden nearly choked on his water. An uneasy feeling came over him.

The more he thought about it, the hotter his face became. The kiss played over and over in his mind. His heart thudded against his ribs.

Anden paused, forcing himself back into the present. He took a deep breath, focusing on the cold tile under his feet and the smooth surface of the glass against his hand. Isolating his senses and surroundings had helped him calm down before.

His heartrate slowed. Reality came back within his grasp.  _ It was just a dream. It’s gone now. Nothing happened. _

Anden looked himself up and down in the mirror above the sink. Dark circles under his eyes had become a permanent facial feature. He could sleep for days, months, years, and still they would be there to greet him when he awoke. 

John was his friend, and probably his only one at that. He couldn’t think about the sort of things that happened in his dream. It just wouldn’t work. Better pretend as if he’d never dreamt it at all. 

So he’d bury the dream and any implications it carried back where it came from, as far back in the depths of his consciousness as he could muster. He was not going to let something like this get in the way of having a nice, normal friendship.

Anden took a few more deep breaths, put on a happy face, and went about his day. 

  
  



End file.
